


Cartography of a Memory

by lunesolei



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Amnesia, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Peacemillion (Gundam Wing), eve war (Gundam Wing)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunesolei/pseuds/lunesolei
Summary: Recovering a memory is a tricky thing, recovering a lifetime of memories is even harder. After being reintroduced to his former comrades, Trowa struggles to reclaim the life he's forgotten as the war continues on around him.Trowa-centric, takes place after he suffers amnesia in the war.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Cartography of a Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or any of the characters.
> 
> Author's Note: Wow, I never thought I'd be writing Gundam Wing fanfic again, but life's funny that way. This is a mixture of canon-compliant and canon-divergent fiction. The end is definitely canon-compliant while the first two-thirds of it are canon-adjacent (i.e., what might have happened if they'd all been together on Peacemillion earlier than they were). I also realize this might be a bit long for a single one-shot, but because of the nature of the fic, I didn't want to break it up into chapters.

_It’s dark._

_He turns around and around but it’s still dark. There’s a scratch and a hiss and then a flash of light as a match catches fire. He’s standing in a clearing, in front of a sloppily erected tent. Next to him a man stands with the match cupped in his hand as he lights a cigarette. The man shifts as he inhales, blocks the view of the tent._

_“No-Name,” he sighs. The man ruffles his hair affectionately._

_He looks up sharply, and so does the man, as a rustle comes from the bushes surrounding them. Two men appear, faces beaded with sweat and steps slowed. Between them a third man hangs limp, arms thrown across both their shoulders. “Harry’s been shot!” one of the men yells._

_“Get him inside.”_

_“We need to get the bullet out. No-Name, the scalpel.” He’s standing in the tent now. The injured man, Harry, is on the cot. His face is pale and his leg is torn open. The man with the cigarette has a hand open, mask covering the bottom portion of his face. “The scalpel, No-Name!”_

_In his hand is the scalpel. He hands it to him wordlessly. He forces himself to look at the man, to look at Harry. But it isn’t Harry anymore. It’s a pale girl with blonde hair and brown eyes. The man is standing over her with the scalpel clutched in one scarred hand. She breathes hard and stares up at them with glazed eyes._

_The man bends then, brings the scalpel down hard on her throat. She doesn’t scream, only tenses and gasps softly. Her eyes are focused on him, not on the man. She doesn’t whimper or clutch at her gaping throat. He can see the blood bubbling up her open esophagus and she chokes on it. But her eyes remain fixed on him._

_It’s a minute before the man stands and turns to look at him. His cigarette is clenched tight between his teeth. His face is burned now, hair missing in clumps and one eye is unfocused and milky. The girl lays with her eyes unseeing behind him. Her throat smiles ironically at him._

_“We don’t save traitors,” he says._

_He feels something; he’s just not sure what._

_\--_

Trowa wakes as they dock. Quatre gives him a tight smile as he undoes his seatbelt and stands. Trowa takes one last look out the window but the scenery has changed since he last looked. No more space, now it is thick metal walls and wiring. “We’re here,” Quatre announces, unnecessarily.

Trowa nods and retrieves his bag from the compartment. He follows the shorter boy from the shuttle and into the hanger. Workers mill about, similar to how the workers at the circus did. But these have drawn faces whereas the circus workers had been laughing and half drunk. Quatre smiles brightly at them as they pass the airlock doors into the main part of the spacecraft.

A balding man in an outrageously printed Hawaiian shirt is waiting for them on the other side. He grins at Quatre and slaps him on the back. “So you found him, eh? Good job.” He looks Trowa up and down. “I’m Howard.”

“Trowa,” he replies. The name still seems foreign on his tongue, bitter. He can’t help but remember the dream from the shuttle. _No-Name_ , he thinks.

“Well, the other pilots were in the lounge last I saw. They’ll show you your bunks and what-not. Good to have you with us, 03.” Howard claps his hands and wanders off down a side corridor.

“That’s your pilot number,” Quatre explains as they walk. Trowa knows this, Quatre told him it before. “I’m 04.” Quatre had told him that before too. 

“Do you…?” But he can’t finish the question. They had arrived at a door with a placard beside it announcing it to be the lounge. Where the other pilots are. Trowa knows he has met them before, most of them anyway. Quatre had told him and Cathy had hinted at it. He is sure though that he won’t remember any of them.

“Do I?” Quatre prompts.

“Never mind.” 

He stares at the floor while Quatre opens the door. It hisses open and then, suddenly, they are in the room somehow. The first of the others he notices is the one with the black hair and the angry voice. He’s yelling and gesturing wildly at a chess set. Another boy sits with him; this one has a long braid and a big smile. But whereas Quatre’s is kind this one is mischievous. 

The one with the braid looks up and grins, waving. “Yo, Quatre’s back!” he announces. “You got him!”

“Yes, but…”

“Maxwell, do not attempt to change the subject. You have dishonored the game of chess by cheating. What do you have to say for yourself?” the black haired boy demands.

“Hey, Trowa, I’m Duo Maxwell. I don’t think we ever formally met before the redhead chased me off.” He grins at Trowa cheerfully.

“Don’t scare him by acting like a lunatic, Maxwell,” the other one grumbles. “Chang Wufei. Good to see you didn’t die.”

“Yeah,” Trowa murmurs. He tries to think of something else to say but comes up blank. He settles for setting his bag at his feet.

“Almost as talkative as Heero,” Duo jokes. He falls back onto a sofa.

“Well, see,” Quatre tries. 

The door opens behind them and as one they all turn to look. A boy with messy brown hair enters. He’s balancing a laptop on one hand and typing on it with the other. He looks up and his eyes widen just a fraction. “Trowa.” Trowa blinks at him helplessly and the boy’s face sets into a frown. Trowa has a feeling it’s a typical look judging by the etched lines that appear.

He looks familiar, more familiar than the other two do. More familiar than Quatre did when he showed up at the circus. _Wing_ , he thinks, impossibly. He shoves the word aside and swallows. “I’m sorry, who are you?” Duo bursts into laughter behind him. 

“Shows you to let him take the blast for you, Heero,” Duo chortles. “Good one, Trowa.”

“No you guys,” Quatre says. Trowa can feel his neck beginning to heat from embarrassment and Heero doesn’t look away. Only continues to study him quietly. His head tilts and his eyes are calculating. “No, he has amnesia. He doesn’t remember being a pilot.”

The room is quiet and when Trowa finally tears his eyes away from Heero’s he sees the other two staring at Quatre. “Then why did you bring him here?” Wufei demands. “He’s useless to us this way.”

“We could try and hit him in the head. That always works on TV,” Duo suggests.

_\--_

_Screaming fills his ears. Screaming, crying, and pleading. He feels a headache coming on as he looks around the street, feels the heat from the fire. Civilians run, a child cries, bullets are fired. He takes a moment, takes a breath, and doesn’t choke on acrid smoke. His blood isn’t pounding, it’s cool and level, except that his head aches and his eyes burn whenever there’s a flash of light._

_When his hand raises the gun he realizes they’re running from him._

_He pulls the trigger anyway, over and over, powerless to stop it. Powerless to stop himself._

_He lies on his back, stares up at a phantom sky that may or may not be real. Smoke fills his lungs and he turns his head to see the man sitting next to him. The cigarette dangles from his mouth, tip orange in the dark._

_“No-Name,” the man sighs._

_“I have a name,” he replies._

_“Yeah? Never told me it.” The man manages to speak and not drop the cigarette. He is suitably impressed, even if he hates the scent. “Look at you, No-Name,” he sighs again._

_“Who are you?” he asks, because he has to. The man stares at him out of the corner of his eye, sad and empty._

_“It’s best you forget,” he says._

_“I don’t want to.”_

_He watches the man take another long drag on his cigarette. When the man turns to face him there’s a bullet hole in his left frontal. Blood drenches his left eye, spatters into his hair. He can see into the cavity of his skull. His stomach churns but he doesn’t throw up._

_“You should.”_

_It’s not the man anymore. It’s a teenaged girl with strawberry blonde hair and a lithe body. He’s surprised, but only for a moment. Then it fades away and all that’s left is calm and acceptance. The girl is sitting next to him and she seems normal. Her legs extend outward, arms bracing her upper body._

_“Should what?” he asks, because he has to._

_The girl laughs, head falling back. He notices the purple bruises on her throat that had been hidden by the fall of her hair. They’re ugly and wide, branch out into individual fingers. “Should be an acrobat,” she tells him. “I could teach you some moves; maybe you can avoid Catherine then.”_

_“Catherine?” He knows the name, grasps onto the familiarity of it, stares at the girl longer. Her eyes are grass green; they stare back at him evenly. “You know Catherine?”_

_“Of course I do.” Her laugh is hoarse, winded. She doesn’t look as exuberant as she did seconds, hours, ago. She sits up, hands brace against folded knees. More bruising mottles her arms. When she turns to him her right eye is swollen and black. “Why are you staring?”_

_“Your eye,” he says simply. It’s the truth, she mulls it over. Her hand reaches up to touch the eye and her fingers come away bent at odd angles, nails chipped and bloodied. “Your hand.”_

_Her eyes dart down to the limb, wiggle experimentally and wince. “Oh, that’s not good,” she sighs. Her voice is small and sad. “I need this hand for my back handspring.” Her smile is bright though, broken teeth stained red, and she touches him with her good hand. “At least you got out, yeah? Stupid soldiers, you tell them no and they think it means yes.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“It’s not your fault,” she sighs. She stands - wavers. “You wouldn’t do this, would you?” she asks. She gestures to her body – bruises, torn clothing._

_“No, never,” he agrees. But he thinks he might be lying._

_Her eyes are flat like sea glass as she looks at him. He thinks she might suspect he is as well. “Of course not,” she whispers._

_\--_

Trowa wakes with a sharp inhale. He chokes on the air and swallows the cough. His shirt is soaked with sweat, the sheet tangled around his calves. He isn’t sure where the blanket disappeared to. He closes his eyes, breathes slowly to twenty, and then opens them again. 

It’s dark in the small room. He turns to his side, checks the display on the clock. It’s two in the morning, he’s been asleep an hour. With a quiet groan he sits up and stretches. He’s been having variations of these dreams for two weeks now, ever since Catherine brought him back to the circus, and he knows that after he wakes from one he won’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon.

He changes shirts, pulls on his shoes, and heads out in search of something to do. The others are sleeping; he hears quiet snores behind the sealed doors. The air in the hallway is cold and he wishes he’d pulled on a sweater before leaving his room.

Trowa knows where he’s headed even before he’s consciously made the decision. He isn’t surprised to find himself in the small lounge area; it’s the only room he’s relatively certain of finding. And it has large windows that give him the ability to lose himself in the stars. He is surprised to see that it’s occupied though.

Heero is doing push-ups on the floor in front of the oversized windows. He doesn’t seem to notice Trowa’s arrival. Trowa hesitates at the door, unsure of whether to go or stay. Heero switches to one arm and Trowa hears the hiss of air seconds after Heero hits the ground. He rolls onto his back, hits the ground with his right fist. 

“Are you all right?” Trowa asks cautiously. Heero doesn’t start, just tilts his head until he can see Trowa through the gaps in his hair. 

“Did you need something?” he counters. Trowa shrugs; he enters the room but ignores the stars for a moment. Heero sits up slowly, eyes him warily. Trowa’s gaze drops to Heero’s left arm and he’s crouched in front of it before he realizes. “Trowa?”

“It still won’t hold your weight,” Trowa muses. Heero’s eyes narrow and then widen as Trowa drags a finger over the jagged white scar stretching from the inside of his elbow to his bicep. His stare falters, hand returns to his side. He looks at Heero, confused. “I, I don’t-”

“I know,” Heero says simply. He shifts slightly and his back hits one of the chairs as he sits. “Why are you here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says. He leans next to Heero, stares out at star speckled space. 

Heero makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I meant _here_.” He gestures to the lounge, to the window, to everything it seems. “You don’t have to fight, why are you here?”

Trowa shrugs and his eyes are focused on a bright star, maybe a colony, far off in the distance. The air cycler turns on, hums like a trapped fly. “I don’t know,” he says finally. Heero studies him, eyes narrowed slightly. “I felt like I had to. I liked the circus, and Catherine, but it wasn’t enough.”

Heero snorts. “I’m sure Catherine was thrilled,” he replies. There’s a wry quirk to his mouth as he smiles, or maybe it’s just the light. Trowa settles further against the chair. 

“You know Cathy.” It isn’t a question, it isn’t a statement. Heero tilts his head and gives a slight nod anyway. “I’m sorry I don’t remember.”

He says nothing as he stretches out his arms. The left one trembles visibly as he holds it suspended in the air. “What do you remember?”

“Not much.” His voice is more frustrated than he would have liked. “I’m not even sure which are dreams and which are memories.” Heero nods. “I wish I could remember.”

“You will,” Heero says simply. 

Trowa hesitates a moment. “Do you agree with Wufei?” he asks finally.

“That you shouldn’t be allowed to fight?” Heero questions. Trowa nods and pulls his gaze away from the stars to study Heero instead. Heero frowns, mulling it over. “I think you want to fight,” he says after a few minutes. “I think you should be able to. It’ll come back.” His finger traces the scar on the inside of his left arm. “I think it’s already starting to. Wufei just likes to hear himself talk, almost as much as Duo does. Ignore him, them.”

\--

Heero finds him in his room after lunch, passing time by trying to remember _something_. “Busy?” he asks when Trowa slides the door open. Trowa raises an eyebrow and Heero smirks. “Right, come on.”

“Where are we going?” Trowa questions. Heero doesn’t bother answering, already striding away. He follows Heero anyway.

They had ended up in the hanger, sitting in Zero’s cockpit. “I know you’ve piloted the Taurus before, but the Gundams are different in some aspects,” he had explained. Trowa sat, watching attentively as Heero gave an overview of the thrusters and Vernier engines.

“Heavyarms is different, of course,” Heero explains. “Much more ammunition built into it.”

“You have to account for the weight,” Trowa murmurs. Heero glances at him, surprised. “The arms.”

“Yeah,” Heero agrees. “The left arm’s weight gives you an advantage; you just have to remember it.”

“Quatre doesn’t trust this Gundam,” Trowa states. “Why?”

“He had a bad experience with it,” Heero replies. He settles back on the pilot seat, stares at Trowa over the console. “Zero is the Gundam all others were based on and it’s got a hell of a personality. It will show you what you need to do to win, but if you aren’t strong enough to control it then you might get more than you bargained for.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that it sometimes has difficulties-”

Heero pauses when they hear faint echoes of conversation. Trowa moves from leaning over the console to peering out the open hatch. He sees Duo and Quatre enter the hanger. “Duo we’ve been over this-”

“It’s just like a car or washing machine. If they don’t work you give them a kick and _voila_ , back to work they go.”

“ _No_ , Duo,” Quatre replies, exasperated. “You can’t hit him in the head again.” Duo raises his hands in submission and stalks stealthily toward the middle of the room.

“Who is it?” Heero asks, typing commands into the interface.

“Duo and Quatre,” Trowa replies. He settles easily on the hatch, keeping the two approaching pilots in his peripheral vision. “Duo still wants to hit me with something.” Heero snorts and shakes his head.

“He had a fit when I sat on Wing,” Trowa hears Duo say to Quatre.

“He didn’t know you?” Quatre suggests. 

“I saved his fucking ass,” Duo grumbles.

“And you shot my leg.” Heero’s voice echoes from within Zero. Trowa ducks his head to hide his smile behind the fall of his hair. Duo jumps about a foot in the air and glares at the Gundam while Quatre doesn’t bother to hide his smile. 

“Gee, Buddy, supersonic hearing on top of the healing capabilities of a starfish?” Duo questions. 

“A starfish?” Quatre questions despite himself. 

“Well…they can regenerate their legs,” Duo replies. “And Heero heals fast.” His voice drops lower. “And he doesn’t have much brain, I told you about the hospital-window-thing.” He makes a dive-bombing gesture with his hand while Quatre shakes his head.

Trowa sits back while the two pilots below argue over starfish and humans. Heero may be rolling his eyes behind the fall of his hair but Trowa isn’t sure enough to make a bet on it. “Starfish?” Trowa questions quietly.

“I would ignore Duo,” Heero advises. He eyes Trowa speculatively. “You remember how to trace a diagnostic?”

Trowa gives a small shake of his head just as the discussion below ends. “Permission to board!” Duo calls.

“What do you want, Duo?” Heero snaps. He leans out of the cockpit to glare down at Duo.

“Hey, we just wanted to check up on Trowa. What are you guys doing anyway?”

Before Heero can answer Trowa offers him a slight smile. “I should leave you to your work.” He climbs off the Gundam and goes to meet the other two pilots before Heero can shoot Duo for climbing on his Gundam.

\--

_He’s in the forest._

_He thinks it is night. The branches are so tightly woven though that he can’t see the sky. Ahead, through thick trunks and coiled brambles, he can make out the orange flicker of a campfire. He moves silently, whether by choice or training he isn’t sure._

_The man with the cigarette is there._

_There’s a pack sitting on the log next to him. His right side faces the brush that he exits from. The man looks up, eye glittering orange from the fire. The right side of his mouth curls upward before being dragged back down quickly._

_“No-Name,” the man sighs heavily. “No-Name, why do you do this to yourself? Forget, forget. It’s better to forget, forget everything. The whole damn war that you should never have fought in.”_

_“Why won’t you tell me how you know me? Why do you call me No-Name?” he asks._

_“You have no name. You have no past now, but you have a future. A chance to start over, a chance to escape this brutality.” The man sighs again, throws the cigarette into the fire._

_“I can’t,” he says._

_“I can’t,” a voice echoes. It continues, “I’m a soldier, I have to fight.” He looks up, sees Heero. “Soldiers don’t quit.”_

_“I’m not quitting,” he argues._

_Heero smirks, that infuriating twist and curl of his mouth that he’s grown to know in the three days he’s been with him. Or did he know it before? He can’t remember now. “Aren’t you?”_

_“I’m not. I’m working to recover!”_

_“Are you?” Heero mocks. “Do you know what recovering is?”_

_And suddenly he’s cold, so cold, and the fire is gone. Heero lies in a ditch below him, half submerged in stained snow. The snow is melting into a puddle of red, crimson ice forming in the frigid temperature. He yells, he hollers, he screams Heero’s name. Blue eyes stare lifelessly up at the sky._

_He slides down the hill, slips and sloshes in the melting snow but can’t move fast enough. Heero is melting, Heero is disappearing. The crimson stain spreads even as Heero fades. He is too late, Heero is gone and all that remains is a sea of red and a mocking smile._

\--

Heero has his laptop open this time when Trowa stumbles into the lounge. He won’t admit to the relief that races through his veins when he sees Heero sitting there, typing away. There’s no sign of blood, no snow. Even the temperature is warmer than usual in the large room.

Heero pauses to look up at him. His eyebrows pull together in either concern or confusion. “What is it?” he asks.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he replies. He sits on the couch next to Heero, props his feet on the coffee table and stares out the window at the stars. He thinks he can see a colony, just a faint white outline far away. 

“Happen a lot?”

“Why are you awake?”

Heero’s lips quirk but he doesn’t push. Trowa’s thankful and he relaxes into the couch. Heero returns to typing, gaze riveted to whatever is so fascinating on his computer screen. It’s quiet, peaceful, and Trowa almost feels on the verge of drifting back to sleep. 

“Did Quatre tell you how you got amnesia?” Heero asks. His typing is still the same speed but the question jars Trowa back to the waking world. 

“He said there was an accident during a battle and I was hit badly. He feels responsible but he hasn’t told me why,” Trowa says slowly. He turns his head to look at Heero. “Do you know?”

“You got in the way.”

“In the way?”

“The blast was aimed for me and you took it,” Heero answers. His posture hasn’t changed, his face is still closed off, but Trowa hears the sour note of bitterness lacing his words, burning them even as he expels them. 

“I’m sure I had a reason,” Trowa replies slowly.

“A misguided sense of reason,” Heero says. This time the bitterness is definitely discernible. He turns to look at Trowa and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that disappears just as quickly as it’s noticed. He shrugs because whatever his reasoning, he doesn’t remember and Heero doesn’t appear to want to share it so there’s nothing to be said. Heero inclines his chin slightly before returning to his typing. 

He’s drifting again, on the precipice of sleep and waking. Heero’s typing and the stars are gleaming. “I’m glad it was me,” he murmurs. He’s asleep before Heero can look at him.

\--

“He’s a liability; let’s not fool ourselves into thinking otherwise.” Trowa pauses in the hallway as he hears Wufei’s words emanating from behind an open doorway. He leans against the wall next to the door and listens carefully.

“How can you say that?” Quatre’s voice exclaims.

“Yeah, he’s getting better, don’t you think? He doesn’t look so lost anymore!” Duo adds in. “Trust me, if you’d seen him at the circus like I did-”

“Just because he can find his way to the mess hall or hanger doesn’t mean he’s improving! He still has no memory of who he is. Of what he’s fighting for. What’s to say he won’t betray us to OZ?” Wufei continues.

There’s silence on the other side of the door for a minute as the others process Wufei’s accusation. “He won’t.” The words are spoken so quietly Trowa almost misses them. The others in the room don’t seem to have that problem though.

“So certain, Yuy?” Wufei demands.

“I’m with Heero on this one,” Duo says. “Even if Trowa _did_ blow up Deathscythe that one time, or punch me when we were prisoners, he had his reasons.”

“He needs time,” Quatre appeals. “He needs time to process everything. He’s so much better than he was when I first found him.”

“And whose fault is it he’s this way?” Heero demands. There’s another silence and Trowa stills even though they don’t know he’s there. “We give him more time. There’s no rush, we haven’t met Libra yet.” There’s a soft click as a laptop is shut.

“What did you mean, who’s responsible?” Duo questions. 

“It’s my fault,” Heero replies after another long stretch of silence. 

Trowa has the presence of mind to back away from the door and look as though he’s only now approaching it before Heero exits the room. He pauses to look at Trowa before he tilts his head slightly, beckoning him to follow. Trowa does because there’s no reason not to.

“Yuy’s gone soft. We should have left Trowa where he was,” Wufei says as he passes the open door. 

“How much did you hear?” Heero asks as they pass through the mess hall. Trowa shrugs. 

“Enough,” he answers. He stops and Heero stops a pace ahead of him. “Quatre did this?” He isn’t sure if it’s a question or not. Heero’s shoulders tense.

“He was aiming for me,” Heero replies, as if it makes all the difference. And maybe it does and Trowa just can’t remember why it does. “Come on, we need to see how your sparring is.”

Trowa follows silently and wonders if he would normally be more upset over this revelation.

\--

_Her body is gray._

_He doesn’t think it should be gray. He reaches out and touches the narrow shoulder. It’s cold, ice cold. He takes a step back and his feet slide out and he’s suddenly sitting on the ground. She turns slowly; he sees the blood dripping from her wrists. One of her treasured knives sits on the tabletop in front of her._

_“Cathy, why…?”_

_“Trowa, Trowa, Trowa,” she sighs She brushes wet fingers over his cheek. Her thumb and forefinger tweak his nose. Bile churns in his stomach as she leans in. Her skin is white, tight against her skull, a grinning corpse not yet dead. “Why do you do this, Trowa? Why do you kill me by leaving?”_

_“I’m fighting-”_

_“Yes,” she sighs. “Yes.”_

_And now it’s not Cathy leering at him. It’s the girl with the broken body and the grass colored eyes. She smiles at him sadly. She’s whole now, no bruising. Her fingernails are smooth and filed as she trails them over his cheek._

_“You can’t let it get to you,” she murmurs. Her smile is wistful._

_He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see her anymore. When he opens them it’s the girl with the brown eyes and the cut throat. It’s healed now but her T-shirt is covered in dried blood. She smiles up at him but her eyes are too serious. A veteran soldier in a little girl’s body. “We don’t allow traitors to live,” she mimics. Her scarred throat grins a crooked smile at him. He sees the scalpel as it comes at him._

_Stabs him._

_Pain erupts and when he comes down from it, he’s lying on the hard ground of a metal platform. “Uncle Trowa!” he hears a tiny voice scream. His eyes dart around until they find a red-headed child racing across catwalks. It isn’t to him she’s running though. A blonde man further down turns and picks her up, spins her, calls her Maia._

_“Remember the picture I showed you, No-Name?” he asks. He’s standing over him now, eyes dark and smile happy. “This is your future leader, little Mariemaia.” The girl giggles and tucks her face into his shoulder. “Remember that name, No-Name.”_

_But he can’t remember because he’s already forgotten._

\--

“You and Heero,” Quatre pauses. Trowa looks at him curiously, hand clutching the polishing cloth. Quatre’s eyes drop to the gun on the table. “You two have been together a lot lately,” Quatre continues.

Trowa shrugs and returns to cleaning the gun. Heero gave it to him earlier, after making sure he knew how to clean and handle it properly, in the hope that it would spark a memory. “Is that unusual?”

Quatre sits across from him. His fingers tap staccato against the tabletop. “In my experience Heero doesn’t like being bothered. Not that you’re a bother,” Quatre adds quickly when he sees Trowa’s hands still. “I mean, to Heero we’re all bothers, especially Duo. He’s very mission driven, he only wants to focus on what he has to do. It’s just…strange to see him willingly interacting with something that breathes.” He pauses, a memory flashing across his eyes. “Or isn’t covered in fur,” he adds.

“You sound like Duo,” Trowa comments. He glances up to see Quatre smiling bemusedly.

“I just…I’m worried,” Quatre admits. Trowa believes it, can see it in the line of Quatre’s body, the circles under his eyes, the way his mouth is drawn. And maybe this is why Trowa prefers to spend time with Heero. Heero treats him like a person; he doesn’t walk on eggshells around him. He treats the amnesia as if it’s a mild inconvenience – a cold before a battle. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

“I’m as good as expected,” Trowa replies. “Heero is your teammate, I don’t see why you should worry if I interact with him more than the others.” More than Duo who wants to hit him with a wrench or panel or the next hard substance they come in contact with. More than Wufei who calls him a liability and gives him pitying looks. More than Quatre even who apologizes constantly and is probably reconsidering his decision to bring him along. 

“I don’t distrust him, if that’s what you think. It’s just been my experience that nothing good ever happens in association to Heero Yuy.” Trowa stares at him. “He’s reckless, Trowa. I don’t want you to be influenced by that kind of battle plan, because it isn’t one. He blew himself up once, did he tell you that? It was awe-inspiring but stupid. I don’t know how he even survived that.”

“I do,” Trowa replies. 

And it’s true, he does, suddenly. He isn’t sure how, but he remembers, remembers the careful manipulation of the controls in order to scoop Heero’s prone form from the bloodied ground. Remembers checking the camera every few minutes to make sure Heero’s body was still clutched gently, protectively, in the big metal hand. He remembers the shock of discovering the corpse still breathing and not dead. But that’s where the memories end. Try as he might, he can’t remember what happened after.

“You do?” Quatre questions. Trowa focuses on the polishing cloth and gun in his hand and doesn’t meet Quatre’s eyes. “How?”

He shrugs. “Heero told me,” he lies. He looks up to see Quatre nodding. He doesn’t look convinced, but he’s accepted the answer anyway. After all there’s no reason Trowa should lie to him. Absently Trowa wonders if he should feel guilty for it, or if it’s normal. Do teammates lie to each other?

_We don’t save traitors_ , he thinks.

\--

_“No-Name.” He looks up at the familiar greeting, the unfamiliar voice. The man in front of him has a prosthetic nose; it’s the first thing he notices about him. “No-Name, why are you here?”_

_“I’m not sure.” He looks around; he’s not in the forest, not in a ruined city, not in a burning circus. He eyes the warehouse, takes in the weapons and the giant mechanical suit. “Where am I?” he asks._

_The man sighs, shakes his head. He lifts a gun, points it toward him. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he muses. “Without Trowa, without you, what can they do?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_The gun clicks, but it isn’t the man with the prosthetic nose anymore. Heero stands before him, cobalt eyes and wild hair. “I told you, dying hurts like hell.” There’s a tilt to his lips and the gun is pointing to Heero’s temple now._

_“What are you doing?” They’re walking, wandering through summer fields and grape heavy vines. He isn’t sure where they are, he thinks France. He remembers Italy. “What are we doing?”_

_Heero eyes him, his white shirt is stained red, and his face is pale-pale-pale in the summer sun. He feels wrong, feels tired, feels exasperated. “Atoning,” is the cryptic response._

_Heero hands the gun to a man who appears in front of him. The man doesn’t hesitate pulling the trigger. It’s wrong, he knows it’s wrong. This isn’t the way it went. This isn’t…_

_Heero’s eyes stare up at him, porcelain doll-like in a sea of crimson and ice._

_“Dying hurts like hell,” he repeats, tastes the words. He drops the smiling clown mask, it sinks until only half of it is exposed, floating in crimson slush next to Heero’s broken body._

\--

He hums as he walks down the hallway. He doesn’t know the song but it’s familiar in a comforting way. Trowa has spent nearly a week silently stalking the halls of Peacemillion. He’s getting good at navigating the corridors by memory now. He’s gotten good at avoiding his teammates.

The crew mostly avoids him, but no more than they avoid the other pilots. It comforts him, oddly. He enters one of the observation decks, ducks automatically without really thinking about it. The pipe whooshes harmlessly overhead, clangs against the airlock frame of the door. Duo looks sheepish when the other occupants look up.

“ _Duo_ ,” Quatre exclaims, annoyed.

“Well, at least his reflexes are still intact,” Wufei sniffs. Quatre turns his glare on the other boy and Trowa walks calmly over to the coffee machine away from the brewing quarrel. He fiddles with the various buttons and settings, sighing as it begins to sputter and grind.

“No hard feelings, right, Trowa?” Duo asks. He hangs back a few steps, looking apologetic and innocent. Trowa wonders if the priest collar he wears is for show.

“You tried to hit me with a pipe,” he replies levelly.

“Only with the best intentions, honest.” Duo does look honest, which is unfortunate. Trowa shrugs and Duo’s face lights up with a grin. “I’m just trying to get you back to normal so Wufei can stop bitching.”

“I have not been-”

“Do not try and get out of this conversation,” Quatre protests. “I can’t _believe_ you’re supporting Duo’s idiotic plans now.”

“Well, what else is there to do about it? He’s not getting better on his own, is he?”

Trowa shakes his head, wonders if he should have stayed with Cathy after all. He remembers his dream. _Atoning_. Is this what he’s doing? Is he atoning? It doesn’t feel like atonement. The coffee machine sputters and oozes. He eyes it warily, then pours two creamers in it, stirs it until it actually looks like coffee and turns back to the scene.

Quatre and Wufei are still arguing civilly, ignoring Duo’s various interjections with a skill that speaks of much practice. None of them notice him leave, coffee cup clutched in his hand.

He finds Heero in the hanger, where else? The boy is practically glued to his Gundam now and gives stony looks to any mechanic that gives the slightest indication that they might approach. He makes his way to the open hatch and peers at Heero, artificially illuminated by Zero’s controls.

“Permission to board?” Trowa asks, voice taking on Duo’s teasing tone without him noticing. Heero peers at him dumbly from the control panel. Trowa lifts the coffee in offering. “I brought sustenance since you refuse to sleep.”

“Sleep is overrated,” Heero replies. He takes the coffee gratefully and downs a good third of it in one long sip. Trowa frowns. “What?”

“It’s hot.”

“Is it?” Heero asks. He sets the coffee down and shrugs. “Okay then.”

Trowa settles into his usual spot, listening to the steady sounds of Heero working. It’s lulling, the smell of grease and oil familiar, the low whir of machinery a constant background melody. “Hey,” Heero says suddenly. “Don’t doze off and fall out. It’s a long way down, you’d probably kill yourself.”

Trowa glances over the side, it’s got to be over fifty feet down to the bottom. He shrugs and settles back more securely in the open cockpit. “I won’t,” he says. “It hurts like hell.”

His eyes are closed, so he misses Heero’s quick look, the soft smirk, at his words.

\--

He’s sitting at one of the tables in the back of the mess hall eating an early dinner. Corner table, good sightlines. He’d picked it immediately, without thinking. He wonders if this means he’s _getting better_. He’s been here for fifteen minutes, watching the crew pass in and out, watching the groups talking, trying to strike a memory.

He sees a woman enter; her face half hidden behind dark hair. She pauses when she catches him watching, makes a decision, and walks over. She has the self-assured gait of a trained soldier. “Hi Trowa,” she greets.

“Hello.” She lingers so he gestures at the empty bench on her side of the table. “Would you like to sit?”

She does, stares at him. “I heard about…well, we all heard about it,” she says. She holds a hand out across the table. “I don’t know if you’d remember me anyway. I’m Noin.” He shakes her hand and she smiles brightly, runs a hand through short black hair. “Have you remembered anything?”

Trowa pauses, considers. He remembers the feel of rough fur under his hand. Remembers the smell of salt water and merlot. The vibrant red of a little girl’s hair as she runs laughing across a catwalk. The slit throat of a preteen girl ( _We don’t save traitors)_. Remembers the sight of Heero’s broken body in the snow. Cathy’s fist against his cheek. A man with a bandage around his head and a cigarette in his lips. Remembers the feel of desert sand hot against his skin, a melody that lingers if he doesn’t think about it too much.

“No,” he says finally. He takes a sip of coffee. “How do we know each other?”

She laughs, but it isn’t bright and cheerful. Something in her eyes looks unsure, looks haunted. She swallows. “We were at a battle together,” she says.

“Against OZ?”

“No, no,” she says. “We both thought it was foolish, but Heero and Zechs, you know how they were. Or, I guess, maybe…” She’s saved from her fumbling by Quatre appearing, food tray in hand. “Quatre, how are you?” she asks brightly.

“I’m doing fine, Lieutenant,” he states. She stiffens, laughs, tells him _Don’t call me that, really_. “How are you? Trowa?” He sits, begins rearranging the food on his tray.

“Fine, fine. I should let you two,” she waves a hand. Trowa doesn’t know what she means.

“You should stay,” he hears himself say. She looks up, surprised. Quatre looks surprised too, glances between them quickly. “So, are we going with Duo’s plan?”

Quatre’s head jerks up, eyes meeting his. Noin looks confused. “No, no,” he says earnestly. “Duo can get a bit carried away, but his heart is in the right place, even if his brain isn’t.” They’re silent, the raucous late afternoon chatter of the other crew members passing by in roaring waves. “Do you…Do you remember us better now?” Quatre asks. Trowa raises an eyebrow and Quatre flushes. “You didn’t really know Duo, I don’t think. But Wufei? Me?” A pause. “Heero?” He nods to the woman next to him. “Miss Noin?”

Trowa sips his coffee and stares at the buffet table. A woman, Sally he thinks her name is, is talking to Howard and Wufei there. “Sometimes,” he says slowly. “But I’m not sure how much is memory and how much is trying to fill in the blanks.”

“Have you asked?” Noin asks. Both boys look at her and she shrugs. “Seems the only way to know what’s real or imaginary is to check with that person.” Trowa thinks about it, wonders what expression he’d get for asking Heero about bloodied snow.

Quatre nods, stares at his plate for a moment. His eyes lift, meet Trowa’s determinedly. “Do you regret coming back, joining us?”

He thinks of the circus, thinks of Cathy’s smile and the roar of lions. He thinks of Duo’s vain attempts to hit him with something when he isn’t paying attention, of Wufei’s quiet consideration. He thinks of Quatre’s earnest eyes and Heero’s trembling arm. He finishes his coffee.

“No, I’m glad I’m here,” he states.

\--

_“I’m glad I’m here,” he states._

_“No-Name.” The man with the cigarette sighs, looks at him sadly. “Harry was right,” he says finally. “Shoulda never taken in a kid. Messed you up, we did.”_

_He lifts a shoulder, takes a seat next to the man, and stares into the fire. “I have a name.”_

_“Do you?”_

_The forest explodes, tents going up like candle wicks. He watches it, watches the girl with the laughing throat through the smoke. She plays with something in her hands, catches his eye. Smiles. He’s tired._

_He’s tired and hot, air scratchy with sand particles. Quatre gives him a smile, leads him through the house. It’s extravagant and manages to exude coldness even though they’re in the desert. Quatre babbles, talks about how happy he is to meet another pilot._

_Suddenly they’re sitting. Quatre is playing a violin and he has a flute to his mouth and he doesn’t know how this happened. He blinks and Quatre stares at him with blank eyes, smiles without warmth. “What’s the point of fighting? They’re giving in. They will always give in.”_

_“It’s the end to a war,” he states. The words are familiar, the meaning is foreign. He has to make him see though, has to make him understand. This isn’t a surprise. It was always going to end this way, eventually. “That’s what happens in wars.”_

_“Is it?” the girl with the laughing throat questions. They’re sitting in the forest, the smell of burning canvas heavy in the air. “And here I took you for a soldier, No-Name.”_

_“I am a soldier.”_

_She gives him a look, sharp and pitying. Blood seeps from the wound slowly at her jerky movement. “Sometimes, sometimes I think you believe that.” Her fingers brush his arm, give him a smile. “Always so aloof. Are you confident, No-Name? Are you scared?”_

_“Are you scared?” he asks quietly. Heero looks up from his laptop and frowns. “Of dying. For real.”_

_Heero shakes his head. “Everyone dies, Trowa. We’re soldiers, we’re expendable. We knew what we were getting into.”_

_He sits on the bed next to Heero, stares at the map of Europe on the laptop screen, the gun resting within arm’s reach, safety off. “Did we?” he asks softly._

_Heero considers him for a moment, stares at the laptop again. “Well, we knew we probably wouldn’t survive,” he amends._

_Trowa laughs until Heero picks up the gun, shoots himself in the head. We don’t allow traitors to live, he thinks. He laughs again._

\--

In space there is no night, no day. There is simply time. Trowa sits in the lounge, listens to Heero’s ragged breathing. Tonight, this morning, this moment, he is doing sit-ups, pausing on each upward curl to stare over his bent knees at the stars. They haven’t spoken since Trowa entered quietly and took up his usual spot by the large glass observation windows.

“Having nightmares?” Heero grunts. He lies back on the floor, stares at the ceiling for a change of view.

Trowa watches him. His left arm is trembling minutely, Heero ignores it. “Dreams,” he replies after a moment. “Your arm.”

“It’s fine,” Heero replies. He stretches, watches Trowa.

“I met Noin today? Yesterday?” He shrugs. “Whenever dinner was.”

Heero nods. “I heard she was back from recon. You still distrust her?”

“Did I?” Trowa asks. “She’s,” he searches for a word, “comfortable to talk with. Calm.”

Heero shrugs, the movement hard to catch in the shadows on the floor. “You got along, in the end.”

“When did you…” _break_ , he thinks. But Heero isn’t porcelain, isn’t cracked like in his dreams. He thinks of the scar along the inside of his arm. “You were hurt,” he says at last.

Heero nods again. “I was.” He doesn’t elaborate, just rolls up into a sitting position, and stares out at the stars. “I think you should get back on the battlefield, if you want,” he says, voice slow and considered. “You’re here; you might as well do what you came to do. Especially now that Sally’s brought Heavyarms back.”

“Wufei thinks I’ll be a sitting duck for the enemy.”

Heero smirks, shakes his head. “You’ll be fine. Think about it.” They sit in silence for a long while. Trowa feels tired, feels his blinks become longer. “How is Catherine?”

“She still makes soup,” Trowa murmurs, drowsy. Heero rolls his eyes. “She isn’t happy I came here. I tried to call her on the vidphone, but…” He stretches out on the floor, watches stars and space craft passing by. They aren’t on the Earth side, he wishes they were. He’d like to see it, this thing they’re fighting against, fighting for. “What if there’s something I’m meant to forget?” he asks quietly. “What if I should just let all this go?”

“Then let it go,” Heero states. “I’ve said this before. The only way to live a good life is to act on your emotions.”

Trowa nods, feels as though Heero is waiting for something. The words echo inside his head, he knows there’s something he’s forgetting. “That’s good advice,” he says finally, voice harsh in the silence that’s fallen.

\--

He’s bored, he decides.

He’s been on Peacemillion for nearly two weeks now. He’s learned the layout, gone out in a mobile suit once or twice (“For practice,” Quatre had explained with a smile), and played enough chess with Wufei to last a lifetime (“At least you can still strategize properly,” Wufei had declared with an approving nod).

Duo finds him when he’s heading to the lounge, in search of distraction. He tenses, waits for the pipe or book or whatever to swing at him. Duo fidgets with his priest’s collar, twists the end of his braid over his fingers, coughs into a clenched fist.

“So.” He pauses, looks at Trowa without actually turning to face him. “I’m sorry about trying to hit you in the head. Multiple times.” A pause. “This is where you would say _I forgive you_ or _I understand_ or _go fuck yourself, Maxwell_.”

“Did Quatre put you up to this?”

“He said I was messing with your reflexes or something. I don’t know, it was very in-depth and had something to do with making you duck through doorways and not trust your teammates.” Duo shrugs and looks at him full on. “We good?”

“I won’t hold it against you,” Trowa remarks.

“Good, good,” Duo nods. “’Cause you blew up Deathscythe and I didn’t hold it against you. For long.”

“Did I?” Trowa asks. “Were you in it?”

“Was I…? _No_! I got to watch it on live television though. Thanks for that.” They enter through the airlock door and Duo grins. “Hey, Heero!” he calls.

Heero glances up from where he’s cleaning an array of weaponry. An assortment of knives and guns are set out in front of him. Whetstones, brushes, cloths, and other cleaning accoutrements neatly segregate the two types of weapons.

“Want help?” Duo asks.

“The last time you had a gun around me you shot me.” He holds out a cleaning cloth in Trowa’s direction though. He takes it, sits down across from Heero. “Twice.”

“Yeah, well you were being a pain in the ass.” Heero smirks and Duo rolls his eyes, dropping into the chair next to Trowa. He fiddles with one of the knives, testing the weight and balance. “Anyway, you stole parts from Deathscythe even though I rescued you from that hospital.”

“The hospital you put me in? By shooting my leg and arm?” Heero asks, voice quiet.

“Semantics.” He pauses, eyes the two of them darkly. “Shit guys, seriously? Why did you both have to pick on _my_ Gundam? There were four others you could’ve gone after.”

Heero laughs, slides a gun across the table to Trowa, watches his hands as he breaks it apart, cleans, and reassembles. He looks up and Duo is watching too. “What?” he asks.

Duo grins, slaps his shoulder. “Muscle memory, man. See, you’re still you in there. We just gotta find the key.” He mimes twisting a key, holding his hand at head level and smiling. “With the way this fight’s shaping up, we’re gonna need all of us.”

“Duo,” Heero warns. He slides the clip in with a click and Duo raises his hands in surrender.

“You can’t argue that point, Heero. Zechs or Milliardo, or whatever his name is now, isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. Destroy Barge? Declare himself leader of space or whatever?”

Heero shrugs. “War changes people,” he says, reaches for a knife. “The important thing is we disable the Libra and then we can worry about Zechs’s plans. Getting rid of that cannon will buy us time.”

“Well, yeah, but we still haven’t decided how to _get_ on Libra, remember?” Duo argues.

“We’ve been over this,” Heero snaps, irritation creeping into his voice.

Duo crosses his arms over his chest, stares up at the ceiling. “I know you think the demon Gundam will help, but I’m telling you man, nothing good can come from that machine.”

“Duo-”

“Heero,” Trowa interrupts. Heero glances up, curious, follows his gaze to his own hand. Blood soaks the whetstone he was using to polish the blade, drips onto the table. His left palm is sliced open neatly, stretching from index finger to outer edge.

“Shit,” Duo says, sitting up properly. “Man, I know you like to play up the whole _Perfect Soldier_ persona, but bleeding out while sharpening a knife is _not_ the way to go.”

Trowa reaches over, wraps the cloth he was using to polish the gun around Heero’s hand, adds another one from the table to staunch the flow. Heero looks annoyed, glaring down at the table. “We should get you to the infirmary,” he states.

“I can go on my own. Do you mind putting away the weapons?” he asks.

“Sure thing. But you’re sure you don’t want one of us to walk you there?” Duo asks. “Don’t want you passing out along the way.” Heero just glares, pushing away from the table and stalking to the door. Duo waits until the doors have hissed shut again before shrugging at Trowa. “See, everyone’s a little nuts here. Gotta be to get involved in this shit, I guess.”

Trowa gathers the guns and knives, putting them away in their case, stares at the bloodied whetstone before picking it up. Pockets it to clean and return later. Duo gets up from the table, fetches some paper towels from the coffee bar and comes back to mop up the blood.

“Shit, this is the hospital all over again,” Duo mutters as he cleans. “Fucking reset bones.” He looks at Trowa. “I swear to God if he dismantles Deathscythe like last time I am going to jettison him into space without a helmet.”

\--

_He is alone._

_He is alone and the tent stretches above him, comes to a sweeping point high above the center. There is no wind, the air is heavy. Oppressive. He hears the creak of the trapeze anyway, the muted roar of a lion, the_ thunk _of a dagger hitting home._

_He wanders the stands, stares at the center rings with a stranger’s eye. He is alone, but he knows this place. The smell of burnt popcorn, burnt sugar, burnt canvas. His shoes nudge something. Bending, he picks up the half-mask of a frowning clown. He lets it fall._

_“You’re back.”_

_He is not alone._

_A woman stands in front of him; she’s dressed to perform, holding a knife tightly in her hand. He blinks and she’s back in a sweater and jeans, auburn curls loose around her face. He knows her. “Cathy.”_

_“You’re back,” she says, smiles. She’s flickering in front of him. Performance. Relaxed. Performance. Relaxed. There’s a dripping sound, her face is pale. He closes his eyes. When he opens them she’s gone._

_He leaves the tent, follows the scent of burning through the maze of cages and trucks. The girl with the strawberry blonde hair and grass green eyes falls into step with him. “Look what I can do,” she declares. He turns, curious._

_She bends herself backwards, lifts her feet to press them against her shoulders. She smiles at him, jagged teeth and sea glass eyes. She smiles at him, bright and garish under the shimmering make-up. She smiles at him and he walks on._

_He takes a seat at the campfire, listens to logs pop and crack. Listens to a match strike, the brief sting of sulfur in the air, and a deep inhale. He doesn’t look as the man sits next to him, arms on his knees as he stares into the fire._

_“No-Name,” the man says. “Why?”_

_He sits there, breathing in burned air and raw screams. “We don’t let traitors live,” he states._

_“They didn’t betray us,” the man sighs. He feels the man’s eyes on him and lets his head drop. “You never asked why I never gave you a name.”_

_“I have a name.”_

_“Well then,” the man says, takes a long drag from his cigarette. He turns to face him fully, face glistening with sweat and blood in the firelight. “What is it?”_

_“What is it?” the girl with the laughing throat asks. She has a knife pressed to the man’s neck, eyes bright in the firelight. He stares at her. Her throat is elegant and unmarred. The man’s eyes are resigned, cigarette tip dipping low as the blade presses in. “What’re you going to do?”_

_The gun is steady in his hand when he shoots the cross around her neck. The blade digs in as she falls, the smell of iron overriding the acrid scent of gunpowder, the sweet smell of burning pine. He tastes blood._ Follow your emotions _, he thinks._

\--

The OZ Space Force takes over Colony C421.

The announcement comes in as a surprise. “What did you expect? It’s because White Fang has pushed them to the edge,” Quatre explains. Wufei shrugs and continues repairing his Gundam.

“It reeks of desperation,” he says derisively.

Trowa stands, caught between their conversation and listening as Howard informs him of the modifications they’re making to Heavyarms. “I know you’ve been piloting some of the Suits, and Heero’s let you look around inside his Gundam. Nothing quite like your own though, huh?”

“No, I suppose not,” Trowa replies. Howard slaps Trowa’s shoulder and wanders back toward the other mechanics.

“What’ll you think Zechs’ll do?” Duo asks. He leans against the catwalk fence and stares at them.

Heero enters the hanger and joins their group, catching the end of Duo’s question. “Nothing,” Heero says. “Noin’s under the impression he’ll negotiate, but he won’t.”

Duo shakes his head. “Sacrificing an entire colony? Man.”

“He’d be an idiot to give up Libra like OZ wants,” Quatre replies. He runs a hand through his hair, looks at the ceiling. “And the colonies chose to side with them.”

Heero shrugs, looks at Wufei and Trowa. “How’re your Gundams coming?” he asks.

Wufei snorts, drops the wrench into the toolbox. “Still needs some missing parts, then recalibration. It’ll be a day or so more.”

“Howard says the space modifications are _coming along_ ,” Trowa answers. He catches Heero’s quick eye roll and smiles. “I don’t know how long.”

“Well, we should get you into and piloting an actual Gundam some point soon. Mobile Suits are fine, but they aren’t the same.” He pauses, looks down the line of Gundams. “Probably Sandrock or Zero would be the best options.”

“Excuse me,” Duo interjects. “And just what is wrong with Deathscythe?”

Heero stares at him. “It has a scythe. Trowa fights with machine guns.”

“It should be Sandrock,” Quatre states. “The ZERO system won’t…We don’t want what happened last time to happen again, right?” Duo nods emphatically, mumbles something that sounds like _insanity_.

“Lot of good it’ll do, getting him into a Gundam,” Wufei adds. Trowa looks at him, finds that Wufei’s already staring at him. At them. “Presuming he can manage to fly one, if his isn’t finished soon that’s still one pilot sitting on the sidelines.”

Heero shrugs. “It can’t hurt is all I’m saying.”

\--

The OZ Space Force has taken over Colony C421 and Libra abruptly changes course towards it.

“They’re going to fire the main cannon,” Heero states. They’re gathered in the control room, watching the monitors. Duo, Quatre, and Heero are standing behind him, Wufei leaning against the wall and looking bored.

“That would destroy the entire colony. That guy _is_ insane,” Duo exclaims.

“No, that’s not possible!” Trowa turns, looks at where Noin is standing with Sally, before returning to watching the newsfeed on the monitor in front of him. “Zechs would never do such a thing!”

Quatre’s voice comes from behind him, soft and reassuring. “I know you want to believe that, Miss Noin, but he’s the leader of White Fang.”

Noin is responding, he thinks, when the camera zooms in and focuses on one group of hostages surrounded by mobile suits. He can’t stop the gasp, can’t stop himself from pushing back from the table and standing.

Catherine is on the screen, auburn curls loose and mouth set in the same angry line he’d seen when Quatre came to collect him. The others are still talking amongst themselves, hypothesizing how long before Libra’s in range to fire. He feels Heero’s eyes on the side of his head before they slide away.

Catherine is on that colony. Zechs will not surrender Libra. Libra will fire on C421.

He doesn’t realize he’s made a decision until he’s in the locker room outside the hanger, pulling on a flight suit and picking up a helmet. He knows a mobile suit won’t get there in time, won’t be strong enough to break up OZ’s forces or take on Libra. Not on its own. But a Gundam? He thinks a Gundam might be.

Howard looks up when he enters the hanger, giving orders to mechanics working furiously. Heavyarms’s chest is still wide open, wires dangling and ammunition missing. “It isn’t ready,” he realizes. Abruptly he turns, heading down the line of Gundams.

“Hey, Trowa!” Howard calls. “What’s the matter? Trowa, what’re you doing?”

He enters Zero on a whim. Remembers sitting on the open hatch, listening to Heero explain the extra displays, the diagnostics. Remembers the hard look to his eyes as he explained _why_ it was called Wing Zero. The ZERO system. A system designed to showcase all combat data and possible outcomes in a battle. _Insanity_ , he remembers Duo calling it. _You have to be careful with it_ , Heero had said, _you’ll still be victorious, but it might not be the outcome you want._

He closes the hatch, powers it up while Howard’s still yelling. All he needs it to do is show him how to save Catherine. Heero had mastered it, Trowa knew. He should be able to too.

\--

_He sees the man with the cigarette, watching him out of a face marred by war and misplaced trust._

_“What are you doing, No-Name?” he asks. He sounds tired. His cigarette is nearly burned down to the filter._

_“Why didn’t you give me a name?” he demands. “Why didn’t you?”_

_The man stares at him for a long time. He can smell burnt canvas, spilled oil, gunpowder. He can feel the flames at his back. “I gave you food and a gun. You didn’t need a name to survive.”_

\--

Zero isn’t bad. The ZERO system isn’t bad.

He fires at one of the incoming Taurus suits, and the screen shifts, showing him all his options. He jerks the controls, manages to evade a blast. _Too slow_ , he thinks. The interface adjusts accordingly and he splits the buster rifle in two, firing at both Tauruses rushing him.

He’s breathing hard and he doesn’t know why.

\--

_He sees Catherine, blood coated arms and disappointed face. He reaches for her, leaves his arm extended when she turns away._

\--

He needs to save her, needs to save her.

OZ comes at him stronger than he thought they would. But ZERO shows him the way out, shows him how to end it. How to save her.

He’d left her where she was safe.

_Trowa!_

She’s there, running toward him. Sparkly pink tights and feathers in her hair. Not disappointed, scared-scared-scared.

_Cathy!_

He sees the Taurus behind her, lifts the rifle, fires. Catherine screams, shatters, scatters into nothing. The Taurus behind her crumples, burns.

\--

_“You lied to me,” the girl with the green eyes accuses. He stares at her passively. “You said you would never do this.”_

_“Never,” he agrees._

_Her face is swollen, her fingers broken and twisted. She stares at him through puffy eyes. “She cared for you.”_

_“I’m doing what needs to be done, for victory.”_

\--

He should be horrified. He should be…he should be. His breathing is too loud in his helmet. ZERO is showing him the next target. The next enemy to take out. He needs to, he needs to. The mobile suit is in front of him, between him and the colony.

“Don’t do it, Trowa!” he hears over the radio. The Taurus in front of him combusts, but not from his own weapon. He sees Sandrock speeding toward him. Sandrock. Quatre. “Trowa, open your eyes!”

He doesn’t understand, his eyes are open. They’ve never been this open before.

His breathing is still too loud for him to be so calm.

“The person you want to protect _lives_ there, Trowa!”

_Cathy_ , he thinks. Cathy is dead. He saw her shatter.

“You were the one who corrected the mistake _I_ made, Trowa. I can’t let you make the same one,” Quatre continues, voice tinny but passionate over the intercom. “Don’t let Zero control you. You’re stronger than that, Trowa!”

His head hurts, his head hurts, his head _hurts_. He grabs at the helmet, bends forward as far as Zero’s restraints will allow.

“The person I want to protect,” he repeats.

\--

_He is alone._

_It is dark, cold. Pinpricks of light flicker in the distance._ Stars _, he thinks,_ space _._

_He is alone and this is wrong._

_There is the crackle of fire consuming wood._

_He has an ache in the back of his head, radiating inwards in sharp stabbing pains._

_There is a hint of movement in the shadows._

_He looks up, he’s in his trailer, Heero half sitting in bed. Bandages wrap around his chest and abdomen, curl around his right forearm, and cover his left arm from wrist to shoulder. The echoes of “Why did you save me?” hanging heavy in the air._

_His breathing is too loud._

_Cathy’s right-hook connects squarely with his cheek. Anger shines bright in her eyes. “Don’t you think your life is a little too valuable, Trowa?” Her eyes overflowing, tears marring her carefully applied make-up._

_His head hurts._

_Heavyarms has Sandrock’s fist clenched in his hand, holding him back. He watches as suddenly Sandrock’s hatch opens, Quatre stepping from the cockpit. “You and I shouldn’t be fighting!” He lets go of the controls, stares at the monitor, slowly opens his own hatch. Quatre laughs when he sees him. “Put your hands down, I was the first to surrender, remember?”_

_His breathing is too loud and his head hurts._

_He might be screaming._

\--

“Trowa! Trowa!” The words are tinny in Zero’s cockpit, get lost in the beeping of the controls, the pounding in his ears. “Trowa, are you alright? Trowa!”

He takes a deep breath, his head _aches_ , but his breathing is even now. Controlled. He reaches for the controls. “You’re right, Quatre. We both have people to protect.”

He isn’t sure what Quatre hears, over the comms. There’s a silence, he closes his eyes, forces himself to sit up. “Trowa,” Quatre says finally. “Trowa, you got your memory back.”

He takes another deep breath, centers himself. Heero would probably shoot him if he got sick in his Gundam. “Let’s go. Catherine’s waiting for us.”


End file.
